


More Than the Hairs On His Head

by dontbecooler



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Proud of this one, Rape Aftermath, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock's Violin, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1267021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontbecooler/pseuds/dontbecooler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'John had been strapped to a bomb, a large coat covering it and an ear piece shoved in his ear. He was so tired, so weak, and with the bomb he just wanted to collapse, but he couldn't give up yet. "Evening, this is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?" he recited, praying Sherlock wouldn't fall for the mind games.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than the Hairs On His Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youtuberstothetardis.tumblr.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=youtuberstothetardis.tumblr.com).



> RPed with the lovely youtuberstothetardis.tumblr and she was John yay! i was Sherlock :3 again...  
> (It's so long and perfect oh my god) {lol thats what she said}
> 
> Yes, so there is a Trigger Warning, so take care m'dears, and otherwise ENJOY!

_Johnnyboy's a loud screamer, Sherlock, did you know that? JM_

 

**_What the hell have you done to him? SH_ **

 

_Oh, there's a long list. He takes a lot to crack; he's very loyal to you, isn't he? I like it. JM_

 

**_If you've touched a hair on his head I swear to god death will be the easy way out. SH_ **

 

_I touched more than just the hairs on his head. JM_

 

**_Where the hell are you?! Where's John!? SH_ **

 

_We're at the pool. I assume you know which pool. Carl Powers? I suggest you join us at midnight. JM_

 

**_You better bring a gun because I'm going to kill you. SH_ **

 

_Oh, but you won't. You don't want to risk Johnny's life now, do you? JM_

 

**_I have nothing more to say to you. SH_ **

 

_Well, I'll see you there honey. JM_

 

Sherlock looked at his watch hurriedly. There was still time. He loaded his gun and tucked it in behind his back. He felt sick to his stomach. John, his John, possibly hurt, not probably hurt, and it was his fault. Sherlock hailed a cab, taking deep breaths. He'll be fine, you'll be fine. His blogger. John. He threw the money at the cabbie, jumping out and not hesitating to push open the swimming pool doors. "John?!" He called out immediately as he surveyed the illuminated pool.

 

John had been strapped to a bomb, a large coat covering it and an ear piece shoved in his ear. He was so tired, so weak, and with the bomb he just wanted to collapse, but he couldn't give up yet. "Evening, this is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?" he recited, praying Sherlock wouldn't fall for the mind games.

 

Sherlock drew and leveled his gun, glancing desperately around for any other person. No one. The detective resisted the urge to run forward and embrace the man, but he couldn't help himself getting as much information as he could. Tired, bruised, about to collapse. "John?" Sherlock asked slowly, trying to stake steadying breaths but not really succeeding.

 

"Bet you never saw this coming," he said as he stepped into the pool lights. He had his hands tucked into the pockets of the coat to hide the obvious injuries on his wrists from where he'd been tied up. He wasn't going to let Sherlock know what happened, it'd only hurt him. It was his plan to make him think he'd only been locked up for the past hours. He tried to stand straight, but the bomb was pressing down against the wounds on his back, and it was just so _hard_.

 

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "Stop using him as your mouth piece," Sherlock hissed, still looking frantically for another person. John was barely able to move, someone was going to have to pay for this. "John, we'll be alright," he whispered, but John shook his head slowly, and Sherlock stopped talking. He kept his gun raised, his heart beating in his ears like a drum.

 

"What... would you like me ... to make him say ... next?" John said, trying to control his breathing. It was going fast enough already, and he couldn't look weaker. "Gottle o'gear, gottle o'gear, gottle o'...gear," John repeated, his voice cracking as he spoke the words.

 

"Stop it!" Sherlock snapped, but his harsh tone couldn't stop the desperation behind the words. John looked utterly broken, and Sherlock had already pieced together what had happened. _'I touched more than the hairs on his head. JM'_ , and Johns stiffness. It meant only one thing. Sherlock pursed his lips to keep himself crying out.

 

John saw it in Sherlock’s eyes, he _knew_. He couldn't know, no, that wasn't meant to happen. He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the bomb, listening to Moriarty’s voice. "I thought it was a nice touch, the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him," John cringed at the next sentence, "I can stop John Watson too, stop his heart," he said quietly, looking down at his chest when a rifles laser light trained itself on the bomb. He leaned his head back and let out a shaky breath.

 

Sherlock’s throat constricted. He decided to stay quiet; any words might provoke the mad-man. John looked terrified. Sherlock flicked his gaze around, trying to catch sight of the shooters but not seeing them. After not speaking for far too long, Sherlock spoke. "Stop being frightened and show your face."

 

John zoned out as Moriarty revealed himself, channeling all his concentration into not passing out. The whole scene was a blur, until he'd jumped onto to a Moriarty to save Sherlock, but that's when more laser lights appeared, and this time on Sherlock. He stepped back and closed his eyes, waiting for Sherlock to outsmart a Moriarty. That's what he did, he always did, and this time, he had to outsmart him.

 

"Westwood," James said, looking highly offended. "Now look Sherlock, I'm fascinated by you, but when you started loving this loyal little dog of yours you became boring." He shook his head. Sherlock’s mind was a blur. So many situations that could happen right now and none of them were extremely probable to work. Sherlock was about to speak, but the Irishman turned away. "Well, gotta go boys." He clicked his fingers and the lasers disappeared. "Have fun dealing with your broken toy!" Sherlock heard as Moriarty went out of view. Immediately, Sherlock unclipped the bomb and threw it away from the two of them. He let John fall into him, kissing the dusty hair and caressing in such a soft way. "John," he breathed, "Can you hear me?"

 

John gripped onto Sherlock, his hands balling into his shirt. He was safe, he was finally safe and so was Sherlock. He took deep breaths, knowing he was only a few seconds away from an anxiety attack and he managed to calm down slightly. He fell limp in Sherlock’s arms and had to push him away, falling back into the wall of one of the changing cubicles and sliding down it. "Jesus," he muttered, dragging out the word as his back painfully came into contact with the wall. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he muttered, still hoping he could convince Sherlock nothing had happened. He felt dirty and used, and he didn't want Sherlock to know anything about it.

 

Sherlock scratched the back of his head with his gun as he paced. "Thanks for the um- thing- that thing you did." He looked at John with concern in his eyes, but it was obvious he didn’t want to be touched at present time. He froze as the laser lights reappeared. He heard John curse, and the detective turned hurriedly as Moriarty showed himself. "Sorry boys, I'm sooooo changeable!" He yelled, grinning. "I just can't let you two continue, I just can't," his Irish tone drawled, but Sherlock raised his gun at him, and the aimed lower, pointing it at the bomb. Jim looked amused, but his phone rang. "Mind if I get this?" He asked, and Sherlock screwed up his face. "No, no, it's fine; go ahead, you’ve got the rest of your life."

 

John looked between Jim and Sherlock cautiously, biting his lip when he saw the lights flickered across Sherlock’s head and chest. "Say that again!" Moriarty suddenly shouted and John winced, memories of before flooding back - when Moriarty had shouted at him, hit him. He could still feel Moriarty’s hands on him, the bite of his belt buckle of his back, everything he didn't want to remember.

 

Sherlock flicked his gaze to his blogger. As soon as Moriarty had yelled he had paled considerably.  "It seems I have to go." James put the phone back up to his ear, hissing into it. As soon as both the mad-man and the lights disappeared Sherlock knelt beside John. He put a soft hand on his cheek, wanting to do more but not able to. "John, we need to get you to a hospital," he murmured, going to stand up but waiting for Johns glazed eyes to focus on him first.

 

John’s eyes flicked about the pool, making sure Moriarty had gone before trying to focus onto Sherlock, but they wouldn't. It was like he could stare right through him. "Okay," he breathed, knowing it was the right thing to do, as much as he didn't want to go. He slowly pulled himself up and glanced at Sherlock, worried about what his reaction would be. Was he going to yell at John? For... Cheating on him?

 

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist, but pulling back when John tensed. Wounds on his back too then. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he walked. He pulled out his phone, dialing 999 while keeping pace with his shuffling friend.

"Yes, yes I know for sure he was raped. No. I don't care if I don't have actual proof at this time. I know he has. No, please, just hurry up; I have no time for your stupidity." He shut his phone angrily, tempted to throw it on the floor. They both stopped when they reached the car park for the pools. "I’m not angry John, at you," Sherlock explained. "I'm angry at Moriarty, but not at you." He felt like this needed to be said, as many rape-victims felt guilty as if they had cheated. "I'm not angry at you," Sherlock repeated, a little bit louder, just in case his blogger hadn't heard.

 

John let out a sigh, "I know, I'm just over-reacting. I'm fine, it's fine," he said, though it more to tell himself he was, rather than Sherlock. He had to be fine, he couldn't let Moriarty win. He shifted as they waited, feeling the blood staining his shirt and jeans. Thankfully, it was dark and he had a jacket on, so Sherlock would remain none the wiser.

 

The ambulance came one minute over its four minutes allowance to which it annoyed Sherlock a great deal. The paramedics urged John into the back of the ambulance, but when Sherlock tried to follow, Johns eyes widened considerably.

Sherlock sighed heavily, stepping out of the ambulance as the medics started doing Johns vitals. "Your stubbornness will be the death of me," Sherlock chuckled darkly, and when the doors closed he stared after the lights until he could no longer see them. When he couldn't, he immediately phoned his brother.

 

John let them sort him out; he'd rather get it over and done with. He closed his eyes as soon as he saw his blood soaked shirt and clenched his fists together, telling himself it was a good thing that Sherlock wasn't here to comfort him. He didn't want Sherlock to see that. He winced as they cleaned his wounds, knowing it'd all be done sooner if he just stayed still.

 

" _I don't care Mycroft_ ," Sherlock spat into his phone, frightening the cab driver slightly as he fumed in the back seat. "You _will_ find that son-of-a-bitch or so help me- Why are you chuckling? This isn't funny! Just because I never swear- I hate you goodbye."

Sherlock shut his phone, almost forgetting to pay the cabbie but doing so just as he entered the waiting room. He cut through the line, reading the receptionists notes upside down and finding the 'whatever-a-big-problem-or-something-but-not-life-threatening' ward. Sherlock didn't care to learn the name. He found the right room, knocking but not even waiting to be summoned before going in. He walked immediately to the charts, scanning the injury information. Abrasions on the back, cracked rib, some internal bleeding. Sherlock felt his heart melt, looking up to find John glaring up at him with a pained expression.

Sherlock hurriedly went to sit by his head, wanting so badly to make it all better. "Was I not supposed to do that?" He muttered, lacing his fingers together nervously. He thought it would be fine, John was his partner and it was his duty to take care if him. Did he cross the line? Sherlock knitted his brows together.

 

"I didn't want you to know, no. But I suppose you'd ask," John said, sighing dismissively. He placed his hand atop of Sherlock’s and gripped onto him, just needing to feel him being sat with him. He needed comfort, and Sherlock was able to do that without even saying that. John knew he'd visibly relaxed once Sherlock had arrived, and even though he hated that Sherlock was seeing him like this and _knowing_ what had happened, he'd rather he was here with him, than waiting for him back at the flat.

 

"You know I'm going to kill him," Sherlock said in a curiously conversational tone. "I'm probably going to shoot him with all the rounds in my gun in his snake-like face."

Sherlock rubbed circles around John’s hand, muttering murder plans and stuff to himself to control the rage that continued to well up and crash around his chest.

"Maybe I'll dunk in him acid," he hissed to himself, nodding and agreeing with himself, completely unaware of John’s presence while he plotted. "Maybe you could tie him up and drop acid on him slowly so he knows the pain you're feeling now?" Sherlock gaped at himself. "Brilliant idea, and maybe then you could shoot him in the-" he cut off, looking up with a slight color in his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he hastily blurted, biting his lip and knowing he probably sounded like a deranged murderer with mental health issues. Sherlock knew this because everyone else didn't plot other people's demise out loud.

 

John had leaned back in his bed and was staring at Sherlock with wide eyes. He'd expected Sherlock to be angry, maybe a little upset, but not this angry. "I'm not going near him, ever again," John said quietly, giving Sherlock’s hand a squeeze. "And neither are you. He's crazy. He's barely human, and I don't want you falling into something stupid. And you're not going to kill him, I'd rather you didn't get put in jail with murder charges," John said calmly, though inside he was terrified Sherlock would go after Moriarty.

 

Sherlock blinked. He didn't understand. "But I thought you'd want Jim to get taken down?" No. It didn't make sense. John had been abused in all the possible ways and he was telling Sherlock to _not_ go after the perpetrator. He let his mind palace whirl, but never once did the thought come up that John didn't want Sherlock getting hurt. It didn't appear in any way shape or form, and that's why Sherlock didn't understand.

 

"Sherlock, he only hurt me to get to you. God knows what he'd do if he got his hands on you. I'm not letting that happen," John said slowly, he thought it was obvious why he'd told Sherlock not to go after him, but Sherlock still looking completely confused. He couldn't believe that Sherlock thought John wouldn't want to protect him.

 

"You don't want... Me, going after Moriarty in case I get hurt myself?" Sherlock asked slowly, trying to process it in his head. The two of them obviously had feelings for each other. It was obvious in their physical and emotional relationship.

But Sherlock had never got this far before. Sure. He had had multiple sexual partners in his time, but they were all boring. Once or twice someone was able to not irritate him so much as the rest of the population (Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft occasionally) but never both at the same time. And never so much that a person was pleading with him not to do something for the sale of his /safety/.

 

"Of course I don't want you getting hurt," John said confused, frowning at Sherlock a little. "I care about you, Sherlock," John said, thinking maybe Sherlock would understand more if he just said it out loud.

 

Things like this in the relationship had been left unsaid through the whole time they dated. It felt like it didn't need to be said, the two of them caring for each other in wordless ways. So to hear it out loud, in a rather intense situation, despite himself, Sherlock felt a little wave of pleasure crash against the anger he was feeling.

"I care about you too," Sherlock tentatively whispered. He had told women the three words for cases and release, he had pretended and tricked but never had he been sincere. Sherlock moved his free hand to John’s hair, petting it in a gentle way. "I care about you so much," Sherlock repeated, wanting to kiss away the pain in John’s eyes because if John was hurting, for some reason Sherlock hurt too.

 

John tried not to tear up at Sherlock’s words, he'd never shown any sort of caring emotions towards him - not so openly anyway. He ran a hand up Sherlock’s arm to his shoulder and tugged him down, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek. Despite how awful he felt right now, the way Sherlock was acting was making him almost forget about it all.

 

Sherlock wanted to kiss him back, the cheek definitely wasn't enough for him, but, he knew he was in no place to lead physical contact at the moment. He smiled slightly and leant his head to the side, sighing contentedly. He kept one hand in John’s hair, but noticed how the blonde’s eyelids were beginning to droop. There would be nightmares, Sherlock was 100% positive, but he would be there.

"John, I think you need to get some sleep," he offered quietly, still petting John softly.

 

John just nodded sleepily and sunk into the bed, tugging the cover up over him, but keeping a hand on Sherlock’s. He drifted off into a light sleep, and he hadn't even thought. He hadn't prepared himself. Nightmares, awful, terrifying nightmares. Moriarty’s childish voice, mocking him as he touch him, and abused him. He couldn't wake himself up, he was trying but he could wake up. He screamed and screamed and thrashed out at Moriarty.

 

Sherlock hadn't even gone through the whole periodic table (as in whole periodic table, atomic masses and charges as ions) before John started twitching.

His face contorted, and Sherlock put a hand on John’s cheek. "John," he said, hoping to wake him up. No use. "John," Sherlock called more loudly, moving his hands so they were on either side if his bloggers face. Still no sign of waking up.

Sherlock pressed his lips quickly to Johns, only just moving out of the way of a flying fist as John writhed in his bed. Deciding that it was time for desperate measures, Sherlock climbed onto the bed. Keeping in mind the wires and needles and machinery and stuff, Sherlock straddled the blonde. He took a breath, using one arm to hold a hand down and another to provide a slap to one of John’s cheeks.

 

John immediately snapped out of it when he felt the singing pain on his cheek. Moriarty. That was his first thought. He quickly sat up as his eyes opened, and shoved the person off him, out of breath already. He looked down see it was Sherlock and gaped, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the words to say, but not came. "Oh, _Christ_ , Sherlock. I'm so sorry, oh my God,"

 

Sherlock, who was quite surprised at being shoved out if the blue, immediately regained his self control. "No, John, I swear, it's fine." He rubbed his jaw, which had been caught in the cross fire of a fist that flew in his direction.

He went back to the bedside. " _I_ should be sorry. I shouldn't have slapped you, but I felt it appropriate since you couldn't wake from your slumber." Sherlock put a hand back on Johns heaving chest. "We're fine," Sherlock reassured, pressing a kiss to Johns forehead.

 

John wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s wrist as he took deep breaths. "Sorry, sorry," John repeated, feeling incredibly guilty when he saw Sherlock’s face having a red tinge to where he'd hit him.

 

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Stop apologizing." He chuckled, brushing an invisible strand of hair out of Johns face. The bloggers eyes were slightly panicked, and Sherlock didn't like that too much at all.

He crawled back onto the bed, carefully sitting so he wasn't moving anything vital or pained. Sherlock laid his body next to Johns, drawing mindless pictures on his chest and murmuring pointless things in a hope to calm him down slightly.

 

John closed his eyes, shifting his head onto Sherlock’s lap, sighing. "I'm fine," he mumbled. He hated being seen as vulnerable, weak, it made him easy to defy, and he couldn't let that happen. Especially after what had happened, he felt like he had to keep his guard up as much as possible.

 

The detective was going to say something along the lines of 'Well no, not really, you've been taken advantage of and you're probably traumatized. Physical and mental abuse definitely means you are not fine, and saying so is almost deliberate ignorance on your part.'

He kept it in. Saying things like that did not help anything. Sherlock played with John’s hair, twisting the knotted and a little bloody hair between his fingers.

"Of course you're fine," he murmured.

 

John smiled gratefully, thankful Sherlock went along with what he was saying, and didn't pick holes. If Sherlock agreed with him, he could at least pretend he was okay, even if it was only for a little while.

 

Sherlock took in a deep breath. This whole, 'I'm fine', thing was slightly tedious, and probably the eye before the storm. There needed to be a break down soon, whether it be in his presence or not, being Sherlock’s fault or not.

"Try and sleep again," he whispered, knowing that his blogger would probably be slightly reluctant. "I'm right here, you're fine, and sleep is the best thing for you right now."

 

John didn't open his eyes or protest, he just lay. He wasn't going to sleep, not after his nightmare. Maybe he could convince Sherlock he was sleeping, because he couldn't shut himself off. Before, it felt like his emotions were at war with themselves, churning around all his insides, but now, he just felt numb. Completely numb. His body ached and that's all he felt, like he'd blocked the thoughts from his mind, and he knew that wouldn't end well.

 

Sherlock knew straight away that John was awake. His breathing had slowed, yes, but he was holding himself slightly rigid and his left index finger was curling slightly, a subconscious thing John did when he was worried.

Sherlock was worried himself. How was he going to help his friend? He barely knew how to deal with a normal person, let alone deal with a victim. He slowed the movements in the hair, trying to think. John was being stubborn in the fact that he insisted he was fine, when he obviously wasn't because who would be, and Sherlock had no idea on how to break the barrier or denial.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock’s baritone rumbled quietly. That's what they did right? Therapists made you talk about things?

 

John’s eyes fluttered open and he cleared his throat nervously. "Talk about it?" John repeated, lifting his head, "What's there to say?" John said quickly, a little defensively. He would talk about it, when he got himself a therapist. But not to Sherlock, he wasn't going to go into detail to Sherlock, which he knew was what he wanted.

 

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "You know pretending to be ignorant will not help this situation. I'm trying to help, but please, keep it all locked up if you feel it appropriate," he snapped lightly, no real malice in his voice. Why did John have to be so adamant that Sherlock not know? It was slightly infuriating.

 

John sat up, biting back tears. He didn't know why he'd suddenly welled up, but he had and they were threatening to spill over. "I'm so adamant for you not to know because I care, and I don't think you'd like it!" John said, his voice rose a little, "If you're so insistent on knowing, I'll tell you, if you really want," John snapped again, feeling suddenly angry. He wanted Sherlock to make him tell him now, he wanted to yell. He just felt so angry and it came from no where.

 

Sherlock scrabbled to take back his words. "No! I didn't mean it like that. I- er, I just thought because sometimes talking helps," he winced at his words. He was normally so good with them. He moved his hand to his own hair, tugging through the curls. "And of course I wouldn't like it, but it's something that needs to happen so we can move forward, don't you presume?"

Were most people so volatile when it came to emotions? They had been dating for a little while now, but John had never been so quick to flick between emotions.

 

John stared for a few seconds before snapping out of it, gaping at Sherlock, "I didn't- I meant- I didn't mean to say that, I-" he looked down confused when he couldn't find the right words, running a hand weakly through his hair. "I suppose you’re right," he murmured as he settled his head back in Sherlock’s lap, feeling almost safe again when he did so.

 

"I won't pressure you into anything you don't want to say or do John." Sherlock reassured, putting his hand back on the blondes head. "I just want you to know that I'm here," he added, mentally finishing off the sentence with 'and I want to know you're here for me too.' Sentiment was a cage and the detective had found himself completely and utterly locked in it.

 

The blonde nodded and reached up, taking Sherlock’s free hand in his, playing with his slender fingers. "They drugged me," he said quietly, referring to when he was first taken.

It was obvious Sherlock, even though he was saying it was only to help John, wanted to know. He always had to know everything, or he got twitchy, so if John was going to tell him, he was going to do it slowly.

 

Sherlock nodded, he had assumed as much. He kept quiet, though inside there was a dragon rearing up and spitting flames. _No one_ could treat _his_ John like that and expect to be left alone. No one should treat anyone like that and be left unpunished, Sherlock concluded, keeping his lips firmly pressed together as to not spout out every deduction he was making.

 

John splayed Sherlock’s fingers out across his knee before pushing his tips against Sherlock’s and linking them together. "And I woke up... in pitch black. I tried to get up, but, uhm, there were handcuffs," he mumbled, feeling embarrassed already. How could he have let this happen to himself? How did he not see them come up behind him? If he'd been a little stupid, he would have noticed.

 

Sherlock squeezed Johns hand in a way he hoped was reassuring. 'It's okay,' he wished he could whisper, but he could tell by Johns one that everything was not.

 

"And... _he_ came in... Moriarty," John whispered, saying 'he' with as much anger and spite as possible. The blogger winced as he spoke the name, but he knew he had to say it. If he didn't, he would begin to fear the name as well, and that's only make matters worse.

 

Sherlock let out a little growl despite his effort trying to stay quiet. He immediately rubbed circles on John’s hand, silently apologizing.

 

John had to stop there, since after saying his name, the fear flooded back in and so did the flashbacks. He tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand as he tried to push them away, scrunched his eyes together and curling in on himself.

 

In response, Sherlock enveloped John with is arms. He still didn't say anything, having resolve in letting John making the decisions. Sherlock breathed softly into John’s hair, kissing lightly and stroking his cheek.

 

John was grateful for how caring Sherlock was being, how careful he was being. His arms loosely hooked around Sherlock’s waist, and he tucked his head into Sherlock’s side. "When can we go home?" he asked quietly, just wanting to be anywhere other than this hospital. He wanted to be at home, with Sherlock, where he could drink tea and where his comfortable jumpers, rather than this scratchy hospital gown.

 

If it had been Sherlock himself, he would have already pulled out the needles and would be on his way home already. But it wasn't Sherlock, it was John, and that meant a different approach was needed.

Sherlock pressed the button that called the nurses, and as soon as the door opened Sherlock spoke. The like red-haired woman blushed at the twos embrace, but left it, as she immediately was talked to.

"John doesn't need anymore medical attention, and we would like to go home," Sherlock stated as he maneuvered himself out if Johns grip and onto the seat next to the bed. He busied himself by grabbing all of John’s belongings, wishing he had brought clean clothes for his blogger.

"I don't think that is protocol sir," the young woman squeaked, standing up straight as the piercing blur eyes trained on her.

"That doesn't matter. What does matter is yes, you do fancy another person and cheating is extremely immoral and I'd hate to be your fiancé. So if you'd excuse us, go tell some head nurse we're checking out." Sherlock began extracting needles and undoing wires with practiced efficiency.

He shooed the nurse away, closing the door and helping John out of the bed. He held out the clothes, not knowing if John wanted to be helped getting changed or left to do it himself.

 

John stared in amazement as Sherlock won over the nurse, grinning a little as she left. He rubbed his sore arms self-consciously when Sherlock held the clothes out to him. Yes, they'd be washed, but he's still worn them when...

"Will you help me dress?" John asked quietly, not particularly wanting Sherlock to see his wounds, but it was going to happen sooner or later; and he'd prefer sooner.

 

Sherlock nodded. Of course he would. He'd do anything for John. "Arms up," he ordered softly, pulling the hospital gown up and over Johns head, not fazed by the nudity at all. What he almost blanched at were the cuts and bruises. Small, deep, long, short, some even stitched. Sherlock paused for two seconds, blinking, before going about handing John the items of clothing as he tried to swallow the emotions boiling up inside him.

 

John cringed as Sherlock paused, he wasn't stupid, he knew he was staring at his back. He let him though, he didn't say anything. Sherlock had to see them if they were going to get somewhere.

 

Sherlock put one hand on the small of Johns back as they leant over to pull Johns underwear on. The detective made sure not to press too hard, but also enough that John did not overbalance and fall. They then moved onto the trousers, and when they had done that, Johns button up shirt. A lot of buttons were missing, so as Sherlock turned John to face him as he did the remaining button up slowly, it didn’t take very long. Feeling like he had to do something, Sherlock shrugged off his huge black coat, putting it over John’s shoulders as he noticed that the jumper had a huge hole in it. Sherlock decided that though John looked extremely comical in the coat which was way too large, he was also slightly pleased.

 

John looked down at how the coat was way to big on him, the sleeves went past his hands and it trailed along the floor, but he didn't mind. He smiled and bought his arms into himself, getting the shivers after know Sherlock had seen his injuries. "Let's go," he said casually, though could just about make out the desperation in his voice.

 

Sherlock nodded, wrapping a protective arm around his blogger. They pretty much waltzed out of the hospital, none of the nurses commenting and the woman at the reception desk didn't even comment as she checked them out. Wordlessly, the pair got into a cab, Sherlock telling the cabbie the home address, and went home. Sherlock opened the door for John, and took the jacket off for him. Feeling quite lost at what to do now, Sherlock froze. What he really wanted to do right now was to snog the other man senseless, so happy that he was alive and safe and /home/, but that option was quickly deemed impossible.

 

John took out his key and unlocked the door, knowing Sherlock was worrying over what to do next. He held the door open for Sherlock and as soon as he'd shut the door he mumbled, "I'm going to change,"

He couldn't stay in these clothes, he felt guilty since Sherlock had helped to dress him, but these clothes just made him feel even dirtier. He needed to shower; maybe scrubbing himself down would make him feel slightly better.

 

Sherlock nodded slowly. He watched as John walked away from him, and immediately sat himself on the couch, putting his fingers under his chin.

There were three options now. Leave it be, no.

Two options. Try and coax John into speaking again after the shower, or having enough courage to kiss him.

Wait! Three options. Tea.

Sherlock jumped up, flicking on the kettle and waiting for it to boil as he prepared one mug for his coffee and the other for tea. He didn't want it to be cold, so he poured himself his cup, while he only poured Johns once he heard the water shut off. He leant against the kitchen counter, eyes shut as he enjoyed the warmth in his stomach.

 

John had scrubbed and scrubbed, under scorching hot water. It hurt his back, but maybe it'd cleanse him. He'd washed until his skin was going a raw red and the water was stinging too much. The blonde came down in a large jumper and some jogging bottoms, to be greeted by a mug of tea. He gave a sigh of relief and took the tea from Sherlock, gulping half of it down and relaxing immediately.

 

Sherlock noticed immediately how John’s skin was slightly more pink than normal. He watched John over the edge of his mug, letting the silence stretch between them. The doctor looked completely normal, except for his slightly dead eyes. Sherlock put his mug in the sink, and, not really sure what to do with himself, placed a light kiss on the top of Johns head as he went to the lounge and got out his violin from beside his seat.

He plucked the strings casually; making sure it was in tune.

 

John took a seat in his chair, running a hand over the familiar material. He sipped at his tea, closing his eyes as Sherlock played his violin. It was always calming, the music he created, Sherlock was brilliant at playing. The blonde pulled the jumper over his hands, slightly embarrassed at the state of them from being tied up, and when he'd first tried to attack Moriarty. He leaned back in his chair, curling his legs up underneath him. He had to admit, it hurt. He was sore all over and the slightest moment sent pains up his limbs, but he was always good at hiding pain.

 

Sherlock watched as he plucked at the strings and slid the bow over them. He didn't need to look at what his hands were doing, it was almost like the music was apart of his design, so he took to gazing at John. He was stiff, yes, that was to be expected, but as the blonde moved around Sherlock saw it was more than that. He pursed his lips, deciding to change the music to something extremely fast paced and almost difficult for him.

 

John almost jumped at the sudden change of pace in the music, blinking his eyes open and staring at Sherlock, to find him staring back. He held the gaze for a minute and he _knew_ Sherlock could see he was in pain. He looked down at his tea before finishing it off and placing the mug down on the coffee table. He wished they could talk and laugh and kiss like they usually did, just forget everything that happened in the past 24 hours, but he knew that wasn't going to happen.

 

By the time Sherlock had reached the crescendo of the piece, he couldn't take it anymore. He was so... So, annoyed. Not at John, no, never at John, but at the situation. He should be kissing John better! Sherlock stopped halfway through the bar, really tempted to throw the violin on the floor, but he controlled his urge, placing it on the table with a deep sigh. He walked and sat at John’s feet, looking up at him.

 

John watched Sherlock as he put his violin down and got up, and even though he was doing a good job at hiding it, John could see the tension behind his movements. He ran a hand through his hair as he looked down at Sherlock, searching for a sign of what was wrong with him. He was confused, Sherlock was acting... strange, and he didn't understand why. "What's wrong?" John finally asked, after a few moments of silence.

 

That was the wrong thing to ask, in Sherlock’s opinion. But, he decided to answer honestly.

"What's wrong with me, John, is that my partner in life and in crime won't talk to be and I have no idea how to make anything better. He is slowly just going into himself and I can't even kiss him without thinking I might cross a line. It's stressful, watching you, John, knowing you're in pain and not being able to do anything about it."

 

"Right," John said quietly, looking down at his lap. His hands clenched nervously and he didn't know what to do. What did Sherlock want from him? He ran his tongue over his lips and pushed himself off the chair and onto the floor, placing the cup of tea on the table and sitting down next to Sherlock. He glanced over at Sherlock as he brought his legs to his chest and hooked his arms around them. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and he was. He'd made Sherlock feel inadequate, he'd made him angry.

 

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. "Don't apologize!" He snapped, swallowing and taking a breath. "Please don't apologize," he repeated, tone calming. "This is not your fault."

 

"Stop getting yourself worked up," John said, leaning forwards and cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands. He took a deep breath as he ran his thumbs over Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones. "It's not your fault either," he reminded Sherlock, dropping his hands.

 

Sherlock let his gaze drop to the floor. He didn't often feel any sort of guilt, but now, suddenly it was very prominent. "I should have figured out where you were," he breathed, blinking. So much for not having a heart. "I should have- been able to stop- been there-," he cut off. This was all new for him. He shouldn't be the one complaining, in his own eyes, yet, since John wasn't talking, one of them had to. But if John started comforting _him_ , Sherlock was going to have to do something about it.

 

"You had no leads, no idea where to look, stop beating yourself up about it," John said softly, slipping his hands between Sherlock’s. He could tell Sherlock was over thinking everything; this was all new to him. It was new to John, really. He'd never seen Sherlock show so much emotion, not that he was complaining about that, though it could have been in a better situation. "It wasn't your fault," he repeated.

 

Sherlock pulled John into a hug, settling the blonde on his lap, sighing. "I just want you to be safe and happy," he breathed into John’s hair, pressing his lips into it. "I can't be sure, there is so much grey. We need to communicate," the detective offered, shutting his eyes as he let John’s familiar smell wash over him over and over again.

 

John tensed up a little, repeating in his head 'it's Sherlock, he won't hurt you,' and he relaxed, pushing his head into the other mans neck and breathing in his scent. "What do you want to know?" John asked slowly, unsure whether he should have asked that once he'd said it.

 

Sherlock felt his blogger tense, and he ran his hand softy down his arm. 'I want to know what happened to you', he wanted to say, but it was too brash, and he probably didn't. Deep down he didn't want to know, he didn't want to become furious again, but the detective that he was he needed to know.

"I want to know what happened. Even if it's the simplified version, I need to know what I need to avoid doing, to keep you safe."

 

John’s hands wrapped around Sherlock’s arm and clutched on tight as he took a deep breath. He'd already started the story, so he may as well finish it. And he knew, in the long run, it'd help if he told Sherlock. "After he came in, he started asking about you. What your favorite food was, how you smelt, it was weird, _creepy_ ," John said quietly, frowning a little. "I didn't say anything. I didn't say anything for about an hour and he got angry, really angry."

 

Sherlock huffed angrily. 'I'll show that bastard angry', he thought. He grit his teeth, making himself keep quiet.

 

"He just snapped. Started yelling and hitting and ... uhm, whipping," John said, a little embarrassed, curling into Sherlock even more. It was strange, he would have thought he'd he too scared to even go near people after what happened, but he only felt completely safe in Sherlock’s arms.

 

Sherlock pulled John closer, encircling him as much as he could; making sure his whole body was surrounded. He made little noises of comfort, kissing his hair as he threaded his fingers with the blondes.

 

"He's obsessed with you, Sherlock. It's scary. He started getting unchanged and he laughing. I couldn't see him, it was too dark, but I could hear him. He just.. um.. started... um, with me," John said, choking a little on his words. He couldn't say it. He couldn't say the word rape. Not yet. "And he just kept saying your name, over and over, and what he was going to do to you. It made it worse," John shivered a little. That was as much detail he was going into, for now.

 

Sherlock shivered, squeezing John as much as he could without hurting him. It sated the detective the he was, the human that was buried deep down was shaking and almost sobbing.

"John," Sherlock murmured, being the rock he knew he needed to be.

 

"I'm fine," he said quietly, taking a deep breath. His fingers gripped onto Sherlock’s clothes as tightly as he could, but he sat up, giving Sherlock a small smile.

 

Sherlock stood slowly, offering John a hand. "Yes," Sherlock breathed, tentatively pulling the blonde into a hug. Towering over him he pressed a light kiss to Johns jaw, not sure whether or not he was crossing a line.

 

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, standing slightly on his tip toes so he could reach. Yes, the small kiss did make him feel nervous at first, but after telling himself multiple times it was Sherlock, it was comforting.

 

Sherlock pressed a line of kisses, trailing along John’s jaw, before pulling away and pressing their foreheads together. "It's late," he said, slightly breathless. "We should go to bed."

 

John blinked a few times, before giving a slight nod, "Yes. Probably,"

He looked over Sherlock’s face, God he wanted to kiss him. He did, badly, but he was afraid of what he might do if they tried. What if he snapped and hurt Sherlock? He couldn't let that happen. The blonde pulled back and took Sherlock’s hand, moving towards their bedroom.

 

The detective let John walk up before him, literally crawling on the bed to flop his head on the pillow. How strange it was to feel so utterly exhausted. He blinked slowly, knowing he should probably get unchanged, but the detective had never felt so drained in his life suddenly. The fatigue and worry had all caught up on him.

 

John couldn't be bothered changing either, he just wanted to sleep, let everything slip away and be okay for a few hours. He slipped under the covers and lay on his side, staring at Sherlock worriedly. Sherlock obviously wasn't used to feeling so conflicted before, and John was concerned about what it was doing to him. Sherlock, agreeing to sleep at this time? It wasn't normal.

 

Tiredly, Sherlock pulled John into a spooning position, mumbling nothing into his hair. Though he probably should feel slightly more hesitant in touching his blogger, Sherlock’s mind was slowing down, and all he really wanted to do was let his mind palace sort itself out as he slumbered.

"G'night John," he whispered.

 

"Night," John said quietly, giving himself a minute as he tried to feel comfortable in the position. It wasn't that he didn't want Sherlock to hold him, it was just the whole fact that they were in a bed. He knew he was being silly, he knew the detective wasn't going to do anything. Plus, he'd rather have Sherlock holding him, knowing he was probably going to have more nightmares once he managed to sleep. The blogger closed his eyes, dropping an arm over Sherlock’s waist as he finally began to drift off.

 

It was approximately four o'clock in the morning when Sherlock awoke to John whimpering. It was like the blonde was trying to get out of his grasp, and Sherlock spent two seconds figuring it out before he breathed John’s name. He groaned tiredly, feeling a rush of heat spike to his groin as John writhed against him. Another reason to hate this _vessel_. He pulled away from John, hissing small curses at himself and Moriarty. If nothing had happened John would sure to be helping him out.

"John," Sherlock called louder, running a thumb over John’s cheek once he had gone to that side of the bed.

 

Moriarty had got him again, whilst Sherlock had been sleeping. He'd taken him again. He tried to stay still, he wasn't going to fuel Moriarty’s cruelty, he had to stay still. He couldn't see, but he suddenly felt Moriarty against him and he tried to get away. He was saying his name, his voice getting louder, until the voice suddenly became Sherlock’s. "Sherlock," he said, unaware that he was really yelling the name. John awoke to being sat up and covered in a cold sweat, Sherlock staring at him from the side of his bed. "Jesus Christ," he groaned, lying back down. It felt so real; he could've sworn it happened.

 

Sherlock pursed his lips, watching John. What was he to do about his _little problem_? It wasn't like it would just go away on its own. "Are you alright?" He asked with his gravel voice.

 

"Yeah, yeah. Just a dream," he said, leaning up on his elbows, "Just, a dream," he repeated. He seemed to recover a lot quicker from this dream unlike the last, it slipping away as if it were nothing already. He smiled and turned his head to face Sherlock, noticing how he was sat a little stiffly. "Are you okay?" the blonde asked, frowning slightly.

 

Sherlock decided to take the blunt approach. "No, not really. Much like a pubescent teen, when someone attractive is unknowingly grinding on your crotch, things happen."

He moved himself slightly. "I think I'll go deal with this." He slowly got up again, heading to the bathroom.

 

John really hadn't expected that answer, so his eyes widened a little and he could feel the redness creeping up his neck and to his cheeks. "Oh. I, urm, sorry," he gaped, watching as Sherlock began to leave.

He wanted to help, Christ, of course he did. But he was scared, he knew he was being stupid, but he was.

 

Sherlock plonked himself down on the toilet, not bothering to close the door. He was almost completely sure John wouldn't follow him, and he also knew, from countless experiments, how to get this over and done with.

He pulled his trousers off and put his hand inside his underwear. Three quick strokes, a squeeze on the balls, the same pattern like every other time he had gotten an extremely ill timed boner.

"John," he hissed through his teeth as he finished in his hand, quickly cleaning it up with some toilet paper and flushing it away.

 

John could hear him, of course he could. He lay back on the bed, knowing he was still a deep red color, and debated whether go after him. 'Fuck it' was what he thought as he got up. He wasn't going to let Moriarty ruin him, yes, he'd have emotional damage for a long time, but he wasn't going to let it stop him. But he was too late, once he'd stood up, Sherlock emerged back into the bedroom, and John couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.

 

Her lock felt the familiar post-masturbation bliss as he almost ran into John. Seeing the slight glint in the dark blue eyes, and still slightly tired, he backed John against the wall and pressed a soft kiss to the blonde’s lips, wrapping his arms around the blonde cautiously.

 

John stumbled backwards and hissed a little at the contact with his back, but he wasn't really thinking about it in the current situation. He hesitantly rested his hands on the sides of Sherlock’s neck, gently kissing him back.

 

Sherlock pressed one hand into John’s side, moving the other one so it could cup his cheek. Sherlock licked at the bottom lip of his blogger, thinking of things he could have done to him if the blonde was not unstable.

 

John’s mouth widened, pulling Sherlock closer to him. Hew as quickly running out if breath and he knew he was unnecessarily freaking himself out when he felt Sherlock’s hand move to his side. _It was only Sherlock_. And he didn't want to annoy Sherlock, so he carried on kissing him.

 

Sherlock pressed harder into John, even venturing so far as to bite the smaller mans lip. He had wanted to do this since saving his blogger from the pools, and now he was. "John," he groaned, using one foot to expertly push one of John’s feet to one side as to settle closer between his legs.

 

John let him, one of his hands sliding down to rest against the detective’s chest. As much as he was enjoying himself, he could feel his chest heaving as he was praying for himself to not go into a panic attack. It was like he wasn't in control, he himself wasn't freaking out, but his body was. He hooked his other arm around Sherlock’s neck, keeping him close.

 

Sherlock pressed his mouth to Johns jaw, nipping slightly and sighing. _His Blogger_. Sherlock moved his hand so it was in John’s hair, slightly tugging as a subconscious thing. As soon as he did that, the detective felt something in the air change. He had stepped over a line he was sure.

 

John couldn't help it, as soon as Sherlock had pulled on his hair; his hands had turned into Moriarty’s. Moriarty had barely stopped pulling on John’s hair for hours. John let out a strangled gasp for air as he quickly removed his hands from Sherlock, pushing him to the side before he subconsciously hit him again and tripping over his feet to fall onto the floor. And now he'd ruined everything, again.

 

Sherlock let himself get pushed away. He wanted to sigh loudly, but that would make him sound impatient. He did know he needed to give John time, but it was going to be difficult. He slowly moved over to where John had curled up on the floor, sitting down cross-legged beside him. "It's alright, John, I'm happy with anything you can give me." He smiled genuinely, leaning his head on his hands while he waited for John to compose himself.

 

John swallowed thickly and slowly unfolded from himself, looking at Sherlock nervously. So far, this was the most embarrassed he'd been. "Sorry, sorry, Jesus Christ I'm sorry," he repeatedly mumbled, rubbing his eyes frustrated, with the heels of his palms.

 

The detective clicked his tongue. "You truly do have a terrible habit of apologizing for things you don't need to be sorry for." Sherlock stated kindly, bum-shuffling slightly so he was closer to John. He put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a little squeeze

 

"No, but this must be awful for you. I should be apologizing," John sighed, leaning forward and resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. "Sorry," he repeated, feeling awfully guilty and stupid for letting the situation get to him.

 

Despite his small amount of annoyance he was feeling, Sherlock chuckled. He wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders, the small laughter vibrating in his chest. "You amuse me John. _How_ in anyway is this related to me? It's not, so stop being daft."

 

John opened his mouth to protest, but decided against the idea of insisting it was his fault. There was point arguing with Sherlock, he never won anyways. "Let's just go back to bed..." the blonde said, his voice muffled against Sherlock’s clothes.

 

Sherlock smirked, hooking his arms under Johns he helped him up, keeping one arm over him. "We will get through this," Sherlock stated casually, knowing that he should get an award for just using one of the most cliché sentences.

He let go of John, quickly taking off his shirt. Now, the detective was only in his underwear. He felt like he was still slightly ruffled from his touching session, but he just fell onto the bed, not really caring as he watched John do the same.

 

John chuckled as Sherlock gave the least like Sherlock words of encouragement he'd ever given, and watched as Sherlock got unchanged. He really wished he hadn't stopped everything before, he wished they could have just carried on with no worries. He kicked off his trousers, being too hot under the covers and climbing back in beside Sherlock.

 

As John crawled towards Sherlock, the detective put a hand out, a sad smile on his face. "We should try not touching each other while we sleep. One: it might be contact that triggers things, and two: I don't want to wake up with a," Sherlock coughed, "boner."

 

John gave a nod, his face falling a little. He wanted to snuggle into Sherlock as they slept, he felt safe and loved, but he knew Sherlock was right. As well as triggered, it wasn't fair on Sherlock if he did get... affected by it. "Okay, goodnight, love," he yawned, smiling before rolling onto his other side, his back to Sherlock.

 

"Goodnight... Love."

Sherlock fell into sleep pretty easily, despite having slept a few hours already, which was more than usual. Though, Sherlock did wake up earlier than his partner.

He rolled quietly out if bed, making himself a coffee and coming back upstairs, so he could keep an eye on his blogger. A lot of people say that when someone sleeps they look so much younger, but to Sherlock, he felt John looked just the same, maybe even more stressed, as he slept in front of him.

 

It had taken John at least another hour to fall asleep, but he just told himself it was the fact they'd slept beforehand - which he knew wasn't true. He needed to get help, if he wanted to get better as soon as possible; he was going to have to see someone. That's what he was thinking as he fell asleep, and though, this time, he didn't have the same horrific nightmares, he had dreams that made him roll around a lot, make him panic. By the time he woke up, he couldn't even remember what they'd been about, but he felt numb. He waited for his tired eyes to come into focus, making out Sherlock sat before him. "Morning," he slurred.

 

Sherlock skipped the pleasantries. "You didn't have the nightmare again. What did you do differently before you dropped into unconscious?" He sculled the rest of his hot drink, not caring that it slightly scorched him.

 

John rolled onto his back, clasping his hands across his chest. "I just woke up, give us a minute," he groaned, yawning again and slowly becoming aware of his surrounding. "I, uhh," he frowned as he tried to think, "Oh, I, uhm, I decided I was going to get, get a..." he paused, already feeling self going pink with embarrassment, "A psychiatrist." he finished, letting his head fall to it's side in the pillow to look at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock jumped up, grinning. He went over to John and pressed his lips quickly over the blondes, ignoring the morning breath because he was slightly elated. "Good choice John," the detective said happily, waltzing out of the room to go downstairs and play some happy violin.

 

John raised his eyebrows, bemused by Sherlock’s reaction, but he wasn't complaining. He smiled and got up, going to bathroom and brushing his tea and washing, then changing. He hopped down the stairs, tapping his fingers to the tune of Sherlock’s violin playing as he flicked on the kettle.

 

Sherlock stopped playing, putting the instrument down and going into the kitchen. "Though the people are extremely annoying and ask questions, therapists are there to help. It would be best for you if you answered questions directly and without a fuss, as then they can get you the help that is required as soon as possible," Sherlock said quickly, picking up the newspaper but not even looking at it.

"I'm sure Mycroft will have a list of the best, so I can always get a name from him."

 

John nodded, pouring the water out and making tea. He leaned against the counter and held his tea close to his chest. "Would you come with me?" he blurted out biting on his lip nervously.

 

Sherlock frowned. "I don't see how I would be helpful in a situation like this," he said matter of factly, "but of course I will." Sherlock smirked, thinking of all the times he had gone to therapy and had been kicked out. "I might have I take an oath of silence so you can continue your treatment though.

It took John a moment to understand what Sherlock meant, but once he did he smirked and took another sip. "Well I'd rather you were there, therapists creep me out," John said, thinking back to the therapist he used to see after returning from Afghanistan.

 

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm somewhat flattered," he said nonchalantly, but he felt the smile threatening to break out in his face. He coughed, burying his head in the newspaper. He put it down suddenly, eyes meeting Johns. "I haven't told Gibby yet."

 

John finished off his tea, putting the dirty mug in the sink to wash later. "Told who what?" John asked with a frown, making his way to his arm chair and slumping down in it, still looking at Sherlock with a completely confused expression.

 

"Gibby. Lestrade. The one we work for. I haven't told him you're home safe yet." Sherlock got up, moving so he could sit between John’s knees on the floor. He put one arm on each knee, getting out his phone from his pocket and sending a quick text.

 

John let his head fall into his hands as he laughed, "You still haven't learnt his name? Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Greg, Greg Lestrade," John said, looking back up at him with a smile. Though it faltered a little as he watched Sherlock tap away at his phone, "You're not telling him... um, what happened, right?"

 

"Of course not. It's not any of his business. I am texting my brother though, the sooner the better." Sherlock put his phone on the table, leaning his head to one side. He hasn't asked John the all important pleasantry. "Are you alright today?" He said softly, in unfamiliar territory.

 

John just nodded, knowing it wasn't Sherlock’s kind of thing to ask questions like that, and it probably made him feel uncomfortable. "I'm fine." Thought it wasn't technically a lie, since he did feel quite alright, compared to yesterday anyway, he still felt awful. It wasn't like there was a reason behind either, he just felt dirty. And the whole thing with Sherlock yesterday... it just made him feel as though Moriarty’s hands were all over him again.

 

'You're a terrible liar', Sherlock wanted to say. Instead, he replied with, "That’s very good," and rubbing one of Johns knees happily. He turned around, pulling himself up ad placing a kiss on John’s lips, before sitting back down in his position.

 

John smiled him gratefully, tucking his feet underneath him since they were beginning to get cold with no socks. "Got any plans today?" John asked, knowing it would be best to have something to keep his mind occupied, and if Sherlock had nothing, he'd find something for them to do.

 

Sherlock shrugged, sniffing at the loss of the legs next to him. "I'm sure _Greg_ will have something for us, if not, we could always go- go out somewhere." Sherlock bit his lip. What did people usually do when they went out? Though they had already dated for a while, the pair had never actually gone on a proper date; they either had a case or stayed home.

 

"Wait and see what he says first. We go out for lunch or a walk... something," John offered with a smile, aware that if they did go out together... Well, it would technically be their first _real_ date.

 

Sherlock, very out if character, felt a sight color rise in his cheeks. He turned around, cross legged as he smiled at John. "Let's not see what he thinks. Let’s go for a walk!" He jumped up, spinning around and pulling on his coat and reveled in the fact that it smelt like John still. "Let's go for a walk then have lunch!" Sherlock was grinning. This was exciting. He had never been on a serious date before, it had always been for a case or to gather information or blackmail material. This was serious!

 

"Well, alright then," John said with a surprised Sherlock. The way he'd been acting in the past 24 hours was completely unlike him, but he wasn't complaining. He liked it. He pulled on his coat, following Sherlock.

 

Sherlock bound down the stairs two at a time, throwing the front door open as John walked out onto the street. Closing it behind him, Sherlock forced himself to be calm, skipping a few paces so he could walk by the man. He immediately grabbed John’s hand, almost giddy. He was out on a date. He was out on a date!

 

John stumbled after Sherlock as he ran ahead, gripping onto his hand tightly. He laughed at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow at how he was acting.

 

Sherlock stopped suddenly, John crashing into him. Sherlock pulled him closer, leaning over him and kissing him. "I'm on a _date_ ," he breathed involuntarily, still towering over the blonde.

 

John looked up at Sherlock, smiling fondly at his partner. "You are," he confirmed, and he stood up on his tip toes to press a kiss to his lips.

 

The detective hugged John quickly, but pulling back when the blonde flinched. "Sorry," Sherlock blurted out, only now remembering about the injuries on his bloggers back.

 

"It's fine," John said with the shake of his head, gritting his teeth as his back throbbed. "What do you want to do?" he asked, taking Sherlock’s hand again and starting to walk.

 

Sherlock walked alongside his partner, frowning. "I don't know. What do people normally do on dates?" It bothered the detective more than just a little about how he knew nothing of this subject. He was going in blind. He should have researched or something.

 

John chuckled, "You don't have to follow any rules. You just... do stuff," he said with shrug, feeling quite shocked when he couldn't really think of what people really do. He'd only ever been out for meals, really, and that was just boring.

 

Sherlock smiled; happy he wasn't the only one who was lost. "People go to tourist places don't they? We could go to the London Eye and make fun of all the people?" Sherlock’s phone buzzed and he opened up the text message.

 

_How's Johhnyboy feeling today? JM_

 

Sherlock spat out a small curse, ignoring the text and not replying. The pair started heading in the direction of the Thames, and the phone buzzed again.

 

_Did he have nightmares? JM_

 

A few seconds later,

 

_I bet he did and I also bet that it turned you on... You filthy man Sherlock Holmes. JM_

 

Sherlock felt really tempted to throw his phone on the ground. He shoved it roughly in his pocket, turning it off as he tried to give the questioning John a reassuring smile.

 

John just shrugged it off, assuming it was either Mycroft or Lestrade bothering Sherlock. He kept glancing at Sherlock when he noticed he kept looking around them, as if he were looking for something, or someone. "Are you okay?" John asked, giving his hand a small squeeze.

 

Sherlock started slightly, having been inspecting the crowd for anyone suspicious. "What- yes- I'm fine."

He squeezed the hand back. "What about you?" He replied.

 

"I'm fine," John reassured, though Sherlock’s sudden change of behaviour was worrying him. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and he let go off Sherlock’s hand to get it. "One minute," he murmured, pulling his phone out.

 

Suddenly, Sherlock ha snatched the phone out of Johns hand, stepping back suddenly to unlock it with the password _strawberry jam_.

 

_How's the arse feeling Johhny? JM_

 

The text read, and Sherlock immediately deleted it, slightly fuming. How the pig had gotten both their numbers was lost on him. He looked at down at John, who was glaring at him.

 

"What's gotten into you?" John huffed, reaching over for his phone. He took it back and scrolled through his messages and Sherlock had _deleted_ the message. He looked up and scowled at Sherlock, hoping whoever it was would text him again so he could apologize.

 

Sherlock leaned around John and plucked the phone from his hands, plastering on a cheeky smile so it looked like he was playing. He leapt backwards, holding high above his head where he knew John wouldn't be able to reach it.

 

John smirked at him and caught up with him, jumping for the phone. "That's not fair!" he whined in protest, but he was laughing either way as he tried to grab it.

 

Sherlock winked at John taking off in the direction of the river. He heard John behind him, and thought of a plan. John’s phone buzzed, and Sherlock unlocked it, not watching where he was going.

 

_Oh Sherlock you're so playful. I love it! JM_

 

Sherlock froze, only realizing he had stopped in the middle of a road when a cab honked its horn loudly at him. Sherlock looked up, face paling. "Sorry!" He yelled, getting to the side of the river and waiting for John. He searched frantically around for two hair colors. One a slicked black, and then the familiar dusty blonde.

 

John stopped on the other side of the main road, stuck as no cars slowed down. He tried to see over the cars to find the familiar black mop of curly hair, but he couldn't make them out. He began to walk further down the road to the crossing, rather than waiting for cars to stop. He clenched his fists and thrust them into his pocket, feeling nervous since he was alone. He could have sworn he was being watched, but he brushed it off as paranoia.

 

_John looks well today... JM_

 

Sherlock felt his heart go into his throat. He moved instantly, needing to see his blogger to know he was safe. He saw some blonde on the other side of the road, and Sherlock realized he was going to the crossing. Sherlock moved there too, trying to keep eyes on John. "John!" He called out desperately, getting to the crossing before the blonde and shaking as he waited. If he crossed and pulled John into his protective arms the doctor would assume something was up.

 

John looked up and squinted, spotting Sherlock on the other side. He frowned and saw how shaken up he felt, and he wasn't stupid. He felt his stomach churn, and he _knew_. The blonde knew Moriarty was here, somewhere. He glanced around him and turned back to give Sherlock a frantic look as his breathing sped up.

 

Sherlock saw that John had figured it out, and as soon as Sherlock was sure, he took off over the road, sliding over a hood of a car and pulling John into his arms as soon as they were close enough. Both phones vibrated, and Sherlock pulled away to expertly check them both.

 

_How Sweet xx JM_

 

Both texts read, and Sherlock pulled John close to him, squaring his shoulders. "Stay by my side," he said in a forced casual tone to his blogger. "Don't get lost in the crowd."

 

John just nodded and it clicked who the texts were from. He clung onto Sherlock’s coat, keeping as close as he possibly could as they crossed over the road, his eyes darting around for any sign if Moriarty.

 

As soon as he knew that John was holding onto him Sherlock began to walk. He already had a destination in mind, but he didn’t really know how long it would take to get there. He pushed through the crowds with a purpose, ignoring he continuous buzzing in his pockets. Angrily he pulled his phone out.

 

_Run, run, as fast as you can. I will catch you, and your gingerbread man! JM_

_Let’s play hide and seek, where you try to hide and I seek you straight away because I know where you'd be hiding. JM_

_I love people who play hard to get x JM_

_Fancy a threesome? John will still be loose from last night it think, the amount of times I slammed into his puckered little arsehole. JM_

 

Sherlock threw the phone immediately under his foot. He left the remains of it in the middle of the pathway.

 

John just nodded and it clicked who the texts were from. He clung onto Sherlock’s coat, keeping as close as he possibly could as they crossed over the road, his eyes darting around for any sign if Moriarty.

John jumped and let out a string of curse words, looking back at the smashed phone. "Where are we going?" he asked, trying to keep up with Sherlock long-legged strides. He gripped onto Sherlock’s sleeve as they bustled through a crowd, getting dragged back but managing to still hold on.

 

_Your dearest brother can't save you now. JM_

 

Said a text on John’s phone, which Sherlock looked at briefly as he replied to the blonde. "Safest place in the UK. My brother’s office." They walked into a shiny building, the sides reflective and also translucent. Immediately the guards stepped to the side, on accompanying them to the elevators. To the unknown, this looked like a well protected bank, but obviously Sherlock knew better.

They got to the top floor, and Sherlock slammed the door open. "You find that _fucking disgusting_ creature before he comes anywhere near John," Sherlock said in a low voice to Mycroft, who looked slightly startled.

"Lovely to see you too brother mine," Mycroft said in a bored tone. He walked to his desk and opening a laptop, while Sherlock spun and cupped Johns cheeks. "Are you feeling alright? Did you see anyone?" Sherlock asked frantically, not noticing the small pleased smile that played on his elder brothers lips.

 

John was stunned and still trying to comprehend everything that had happened in the last ten minutes. He took a few deep breaths and settled his eyes on Sherlock’s, shaking his head. "Did you?" he asked, looking back on Mycroft. John, however, did notice the smile; he gave a small one back.

 

"Moriarty could be using anyone in the street to spy on us. He could also be in one of the buildings, and or have people in and down on both." Sherlock was talking quickly, pushing away from John so he could pace and think. It was when Mycroft’s intercom crackled alive that he froze.

"Mr. Holmes, there is an insistent man calling himself Jim wanting to see you, should I let him up?" Said the female voice, and Sherlock grinned maliciously, nodding to his brother, who eyed John. Sherlock shook his head, doing the small sign they had used since they were kids for police. Mycroft nodded slowly, pressing the button.

"Send him up."

 

John looked between the two brothers, his eyes widening. He didn't understand their sign language, he didn't realise they had some sort of plan. The blonde took a instinctive step towards Sherlock, hiding a little behind him, "What are you doing?" he hissed, though it didn't come out angry, the way he wanted it to sound, since he was beginning to become breathless.

 

Sherlock gripped John’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. "I want you to go stand by Mycroft alright, behind the desk. Mycroft has already pressed the panic alarm, calling on the police. Jim shouldn't know about that as it was only installed a few days ago. I don't want you to speak either, no matter what happens. You are not to go near him. Do you understand?"

 

"I-" John looked back at my Mycroft, squaring his shoulders and nodding as he turning back, "Okay," he stayed for a few seconds before making his way behind Mycroft’s desk and leaning against the wall. He stared at Sherlock, longingly and nervously. He wanted to be by Sherlock’s side, he didn't care if that meant he was closer to Jim, he felt safer. The blogger definitely wanted to be beside the other man, when he heard footsteps outside the door.

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth, as the door slid open. He felt a hot wave of rage go through him as he looked at the smirking Irishman. "When I said I wanted to see your brother I was lying," Jim said casually, brushing off the suit, the exact same suit he had worn last night. How _dare_ he.

"I don't take kindly to rapists," Sherlock said flatly, trying to control the anger that was coursing through him.

Moriarty laughed, watching Sherlock’s fists clench and unclench. "Say, if you hit me right now, I'll go with the officers quietly."

Sherlock didn’t need any more incentive. He flew forward, clocking the man around the jaw. Jim dropped, on purpose, chuckling wildly as Sherlock kicked him in the ribs. He kicked and stomped and continued to do so until he heard the sound of his brother clearing his throat.

Moriarty grinned, white teeth lined with red. "If only we'd had been able to do that in the bedroom," he laughed. He blew a kiss aimed behind the detective, and he knew who it was to.

Sherlock kicked Jim squarely in the temple, and the criminal was out like a light. Sherlock was breathing heavily, and to put his anger finally at rest he spat on Jim. "I never wear Westwood," the detective growled.

 

John felt his body tense up when he saw the suit. It was the _same_ suit. He didn't want to watch, he wanted to turn away, close his eyes, something, but he couldn't. His body had frozen up and all he could was watch. He wanted to pull Sherlock away from Jim, the blonde wanted them no where near each other.

John used the wall for support, knowing he was slipping away into a panic attack as Sherlock spat his anger, and Jim laughed. _The same laugh_.

 

Sherlock stood straight backed in the middle of the room until the police officers had loaded the criminal onto a stretcher and he saw all of the emergency vehicles leave the nearest vicinity. As soon as the sirens had faded, Sherlock spun, striding over to where John trembling. "He's gone now," Sherlock reassured, balancing his bum on the edge of the desk so he could be at John’s height. "He can't hurt you anymore, I promise."

 

John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, not speaking as he calmed down. It took a few minutes, and he was thankful for neither of the Holmes' rushing him. He knew he was most likely safe now, but there was still a shred of doubt that Moriarty would get out. He was Moriarty, after all. "Thank you," he breathed, pushing off the wall.

 

Sherlock grunted, a small way of thanking his brother. He moved himself so he was over his blogger, protecting him. "I love you, John Watson, and now you'll be safe with me forever," he muttered cautiously, making sure his elder didn’t hear.

 

"I love you too," John said, not bothered if Mycroft heard. He knew Mycroft wanted to hear, wanted to know that Sherlock was normal, so he said it loud enough for him to hear. John reached up and hooked his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him close.

 

In Mycroft terms, the auburn haired man was grinning. In normal people terms, the ice man was giving a slight smile at best. Sherlock scoffed into Johns head, breathing in the smell of him. "I love you," he breathed, wrapping his arms completely around John. His blogger was finally safe.


End file.
